


Lost in the flames

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Cunnilingus, Debauchery, Dragonstone, Drug-Induced Sex, F/F, F/M, Lust Potion/Spell, Multi, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Polyamory, Rare Pairings, Rough Sex, Threesome - F/F/M, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-15 10:10:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: When Sansa flees from King's Landing, her boat is intercepted at Dragonstone and she is made ward of the lately-widowed King Stannis, who refuses to listen to his bannermen's pleas that he wed the key to the North. Luckily for them, and for the prospective bride and bridegroom, Melisandre is of a similar mind, and has some tricks up her sleeve to help smooth the way...This is madness, a voice inside of him says, as the girl, as Lady Sansa, rides his lap, as she clutches a small hand at the back of his neck and bends her face to meet his, panting her wine-soured breath into his open mouth, biting her lip on moans, as he holds onto her hips, fingers tight enough to bruise, as he groans in a manner utterly unlike himself, as he bucks his hips up and captures her mouth in a sordid kiss wet with tongues—





	Lost in the flames

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa has been aged-up to her late teens in this story.
> 
> If you want visuals for this fic I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/174979603527/when-sansa-flees-from-kings-landing-her-boat-is)

 

 

This is madness, a voice inside of him says, as the girl, as Lady Sansa, rides his lap, as she clutches a small hand at the back of his neck and bends her face to meet his, panting her wine-soured breath into his open mouth, biting her lip on moans, as he holds onto her hips, fingers tight enough to bruise, as he groans in a manner utterly unlike himself, as he bucks his hips up and captures her mouth in a sordid kiss wet with tongues—

He has always valued his self-control, even when he lays with Melisandre it is a choice he makes, a willing giving-in, but _this_ —

He grabs Sansa by her waist and lifts her up to throw her down on the bed, crawling up over her as she whimpers, pressing his hard cock into the hollow of her hips, against her cunt, sopping wet through her smallclothes and burning hot—

This is not control, this is—

Lips at the back of his neck distract him, the slip of silk-soft hair over his shoulder and a hot hand sliding down his middle, grasping at his cock where it grinds into Sansa, a mouth sucking at the lobe of his ear and a voice encouraging him onwards—

 

 

The day had started like any other at Dragonstone in the moons since his wife threw herself from the walls and Lady Sansa washed up on their shores; with attending audiences in his solar, listening to the impudence of his lords and bannermen, so eager to plot and plan, to move him whither and thither with their oily words as if he is a pawn and not a king, speaking of alliances and heirs and marriages.

My wife has only just passed, he reminds them as always with gritted teeth, and there is a war to plan. Or should they like to be washerwomen and ladies-in-waiting, planning their gowns for a wedding instead? Are they men indeed, or gossips?

It was the Lady Melisandre who sent them away today, fearing perhaps that he might attack them so wroth he was, resting one of her hot hands over his brow once the room was quiet of every sound but the murmur of the waves outside the tower.

"Get away with you," he said, jerking his head from her touch, "I am not some child to be comforted by a soft hand, I am your king."

"My king, and my lord," she said, kneeling before him, her hair dancing around her shoulders like flames, her pale breasts straining at the seams of her red silk dress.

"Get up," he ordered and she smiled one of her impertinent smiles at him and sauntered across the room to pour herself some wine.

"You will not think of wedding her?" she asked.

"I'll not hear this from you too," he bit out, gulping down water sour with lemon.

"She likes you, the lady Sansa."

He scoffed. As if a delicate maiden such as her might enjoy his harsh company. No, he has seen how she is in his presence, he has watched her as her cheeks flush with something that must be fear, biting her lip with anxiety. He is old enough to be her father, hard and brutish and nothing like the golden prince she must dream of.

"You have your eye on another to wed her then," she remarked, walking to the window to gaze out across the water.

He clenched his jaw and thought of his lords and their snivelling sons, of their fumbling hands and unrestrained lusts, of Lady Sansa being pawed by their wine-soaked mouths.

"I am not some plump dowager to sit and spend my days planning weddings, I am trying, lest I remind you, to rip the boy born of incest from his wrongful throne, I am trying to do my duty to the realm," he said, standing up, furious now, hands clenched into fists.

"Your Grace," she said, bowing her head deferentially, red eyes shining with devotion. "I shall leave you to your letters," she said, motioning to the stack on his desk.

She left in a swirl of red and he sunk back down in his chair, fist to his mouth, curling his lip angrily. The rest of the afternoon was wasted, sitting brooding, sitting _thinking_ , as the skies grew dark and the wind whipped up spray from the waves and splashed it through the windows of his solar between the bulk of the crouched stone dragons, gusts whining past their sharp wings.

He does not brook with meaningless courtesies, with ceremony, and yet on nights without feasts he still welcomes Lady Sansa to the table in his solar for dinner, alongside Melisandre and Ser Davos, and no other lords if he can help it. That night, the cooks had prepared meat, rich and fresh, as if their stores were bursting, braised and drenched in a red sauce flavoured with pomegranate, but before he could get up from the table to admonish them for their waste, the priestess and Lady Sansa had both remarked on its flavour and as he watched them eat, lips stained with the sauce, expressions content, he found the impulse leaving him, washed away as he gulped down cups of water that failed to quench his parched throat. It was too rich for him, the meat, and the jewels of pomegranates that burst on his tongue too sweet, and yet he cleared his plate, suddenly ravenous, sopping up the juices with bread he tore with his hands, wiping the sweat that formed on his brow.

"Are you well, my lady," he found himself saying as the plates were taken away by servants who shut the door softly behind them, as the fire in the grate seemed to roar to life anew.

"I feel warm," Lady Sansa said, standing up from her seat, and regarding her he thought dazedly that she _looked_ warm, cheeks red, lips flushed and parted, and that he felt warm too, looking at her.

He gulped down a sip of water, coughed to clear his throat, coughed again when he felt a heat settle in his stomach. "It's late, my lady," he said, noticing how his voice had become gravelly, thick. "You should retire."

But she did not leave, did not make a pretty curtsey and look up at him from beneath her pretty lashes; she stood there in his solar, a hand rising to her chest which seemed now to be heaving. "I feel _so_ warm, Your Grace," she said, lacking her usual eloquence.

"Dragonstone sits upon fires in the earth," he replied, feeling a strange burn in his gut at his title in her mouth.

She nodded, dazed. "A fire, yes, that is what I feel," she said, breath short.

His eyelids felt heavy, he felt indolent, _desirous_. He gritted his teeth, glanced over at Melisandre, who was normally the one to inspire such a reaction, but then his eyes slid straight back to Lady Sansa who was coming closer now, the movements of her body languid yet artless, inviting.

He pushed his chair rudely out from the table, thinking about standing up, about fleeing from this room and the hot, close air billowing out from the fire, but his legs felt heavy, his body felt molten. He licked his lips as she, as Lady Sansa, came closer, spying now the perspiration like gems on her throat, the sheen of her cheek, the curve of her waist in the gown that was surely closer-fitting now than it had been when she arrived at dinner.

"Lady Sansa," he said as she stopped before him, body swaying, so close that if she moved but an _inch_ , her legs might meet his bent knees—

A hot hand placed on his shoulder as she sat down upon his lap, legs braced on either side of his, fingers fumbling around his neck for grip as his own hands rose to clutch at her hips. "What in the seven hells are you doing—" he demanded, without making any movement to push her away, her hips notched against his belly now, her perfume rich and ripe, her long hair tickling his fingers where they grasped the warm flesh of her hips. And her eyes—blue like the depths of an ocean he would willingly drown in, blue like the hottest of flames—

And now she rides him, and now he bucks up into her, hands tugging her towards him as he moans at the taste of her mouth, biting at her lips, laving at her quivering tongue, sucking at her neck, drawing blood-red bruises like the flames that dance across his own skin—

"No," he moans, "no," he grits out, pushing her away from him so that she staggers and falls in a heap at his feet, hair dishevelled, lips red as those of some whore, breasts heaving against the fabric of her gown.

"You—" he says to Melisandre, who reclines in her chair across the table, sipping on wine with the easy contentment of a house cat, raising an eyebrow at his words—"you have done something—" he says, clamping his hands into fists as Sansa touches his knees and says, _please,_ in her pretty, highborn voice, pushing herself up as if to sit in his lap again.

He stands up and the loud scrape of his chair against the stone floor cuts through the haze for a moment. "You have done something, a potion—" he accuses the priestess, and then he is distracted by the dew on Sansa's bottom lip, by the flavour of her mouth he can still taste on his tongue—

"Leave me," he orders but neither woman moves. "That is an order, Lady Sansa, return to your room," he says and sweeps past her, bolting through the door to his own bedchamber, sitting down on his bed as his chest heaves, as his palms itch to _touch_ , as his cock strains against his breeches—

"My king," Lady Sansa says, sliding through the door which he _had not closed_ , the red blur of Melisandre behind her, a pale hand on her shoulder. The both of them a vision of pale skin and red hair and pinkened lips.

"There is a potion," he grits out, "she has done something—you must leave me—you must return to your bedchamber—your honour, my lady—you are a maiden yet—"

Sansa nods but does not leave.

A maiden, he thinks, eyes sliding down her body to the space between her legs, hidden by her skirts. He must remember—

She is in his lap again, and riding him anew, she is in his lap and his hands are roughly tugging up her skirts, hauling her towards him, kissing her, biting at her lips, sucking at her jaw, her neck, the bones of her shoulders, lapping at the hollow of her throat as he rips the neckline of her gown.

He grabs Sansa by her waist and lifts her up to throw her down on the bed, crawling up over her as she whimpers, pressing his hard cock into the hollow of her hips, against her cunt, sopping wet through her smallclothes, burning hot—

This is not control, this is—

Lips at the back of his neck distract him, the slip of silk-soft hair over his shoulder and a hot hand sliding down his middle, grasping at his cock where it grinds into Sansa, a mouth sucking at the lobe of his ear and a voice encouraging him onwards—

His hands on the ties of Sansa's gown, another pair of hands besides, and the press of bare breasts on his back as his own jerkin and tunic is ripped from him and he turns and kisses her too, the red priestess, whose mouth is burning, whose lips murmur such wicked things, who turns his head back to look at Sansa who lies before him, before them, bare of all but her stockings—

His mouth is on her thighs, he is kissing them, sucking them, biting them; he buries his face there, in her cunt, ravenous, desperate, as high wails and moans fill the air as he holds her down tightly by the meat of her thighs, bruising her as she bucks against his mouth and clutches her fingers in his hair, _tugging_ him towards her.

Has anything tasted better than this, than the slick that leaks from her cunt, that his tongue chases into every furrow, his nose pressed deep into her sodden curls, his lips sucking on her pearl. Years with only water to drink and his thirst is ravenous. Gods, has anything tasted better than this—

 

 

"Please, my king," she moans, "please," she begs, as his dark eyes stare up at her, as his mouth works between her legs and he breathes noisily, supping on her, his rough cheeks abrading her thighs in sparks of exquisite pain, groaning and _swallowing_ —

 

 

Sansa had known within moments of her arrival on Littlefinger's boat that she had exchanged one danger for another, that whatever it was he plotted, it was not to return her home to the North. And when their boat was soon boarded by men in the strange livery of Stannis Baratheon she had said quiet prayers to the Maiden and the Mother that she might be saved, that the man who called himself a king might treat her justly, fairly.

On the black beaches of Dragonstone she was heaved out of the rowing boat and placed upon the sticky shore, almost falling to the ground before a woman's hand helped her stand and she came face to face with the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, of pale skin and lovely figure, of red eyes and copper hair.

Lady Melisandre, for that was the name she gave, was so kind to her that first day, escorting her to her new chambers - dark and dim and yet without the locked door she was used to, without the boots of the Kingsguard heavy in the corridors outside. Melisandre had lit a fire in the grate, even though Sansa told her that she should not dirty her skin, that she might light her own fires, and then ferried in several gowns she might wear before more could be made. She had ordered servants to prepare her a hot bath and poured perfumes and salts into its steaming waters, had brushed aside the maid and washed Sansa's hair herself so tenderly that Sansa had wept silently, wiping her face with the bath water, holding her knees as Melisandre rubbed a salve across her back where her stays, tied by the cruel hands of the Red Keep's maids, had lately bruised her skin.

By the time she was ready to meet with the King, Sansa was half in love already with Lady Melisandre, and in truth everything she learned after that, of her strange fiery god, her blasphemous convictions, paled next to such pure kindness.

Stannis had not been sitting on a throne with a crown, had not been lazing indolently until her arrival, but striding around his solar, barking orders to captains, reprimanding one of his lords, and tearing open a handful of ravens.

Lady Melisandre had announced her arrival and as Sansa dipped into a curtsey she found herself flushing under his hard gaze, feeling her insides quiver as she stood before a man erect as a statue, wary, brusque, stubborn and immovable as a rock in a storm. Here was no king prey to lusts and strange cruelties, she knew, here was a man more concerned with ruling than with pageantry.

He told her that Littlefinger had been sent on his way, his ship and riches seized, and that she was now his ward. He had no other words of comfort, no promises that she would be safe in his care, but she found that she liked that, that she had enough of empty words, that she trusted him to guard her all the same.

It was when Lady Melisandre had escorted her back to her chambers that she had learned of the queen's death but a few days past, that she had lost her wits and dashed herself from the rocks, leaving little Shireen motherless. Had Stannis looked like a man in mourning? The King and Queen were not tender with another, Melisandre had said without prompting. _Tender_ , Sansa had thought, pondering on that word, could Stannis ever be tender with anyone?

As the moons passed, the nightmares that had plagued Sansa lessened, and she found herself greeting every morning with growing contentment, finding more of a home inside the booming walls of Dragonstone than she ever did in the Red Keep.

She spent time with Princess Shireen, walking the blustering grounds of Aegon's Garden with her, plucking roses to press into perfumes to the delight of her young friend, and picking tart cranberries that stained their fingers and tongues as they made their way back up the winding stairs under the Dragon's Tail. Shireen toured her around the keep, showing Sansa her favourite gargoyles - the griffins and wyverns and basilisks – and counting the many statues of dragons that littered the castle.

She took tea with Lady Melisandre, who asked her many searching questions, her face so lovely, her expression caring and open, and who spoke of her god with such devotion that Sansa could feel an answering tremble inside of her own breast, even though she was careful not to speak much of gods and religion herself, fearing she might be sent away if she questioned the wisdom of the Lord of Light.

Lady Melisandre helped her weave her hair into whirling braids, spent hours combing it and dragging rich perfumes through its strands, talking of gowns and jewels and veils. Sansa was half-fearful that the lady might dress _her_ in reds and silks but the gowns she brought forth were modest, their fabric dark tones of navy and moss-green, their embroidery subtle swirls and shapes that Sansa added to with the beads provided for her, crafting wolves and fish-scales and patterns like flaming hearts in honour of her new king.

She was not there a week before she heard the first whispers of his bannermen's pleas that the king wed her and when she did she had hurried into her chambers and shut the door behind her, cheeks blushing, mind whirling. To be _married_ to such a man, to such a king. She trembled at the thought, a small flame bursting to life inside of her, but then swiftly set the entire notion aside as empty talk. She might have connections to many houses, might be the key to the North, as Littlefinger had told her, his words slurring with wine that first night aboard his ship, but she had been tainted by her connections to the Lannisters, her betrothal and marriage, even if Stannis had annulled the last after her cursory inspection by his maester.

Sansa had once believed she would be a good queen but after cowering away in the Red Keep while her family died, after learning how little she really knew of the world, she did not share the same opinion of her worth. She was pretty, yes, graceful, courteous, but what use was that to such a king as Stannis, she thought as she studied him during feasts and dinners, as she listened to his harsh pronouncements, his exacting demands.

But oh, the dreams that have bloomed in recent weeks, how she wakes panting for breath, her body warm and aching, remembering the phantom touch of hands - rough and smooth both - upon her limbs, the pleasure wavering just beyond her grasp—

And now, now it is as if those dreams have ignited, have burned their way through the veil of her mind and taken shape before her, as she is kissed, devoured, by her king, his body hot and hard over hers, her hands clutching his broad shoulders, writhing under him as he rolls his body against hers, biting at her lips, sucking at her neck—

The way he had looked at her at dinner, his gaze smouldering, heated, his eyes catching on her mouth, on the scant swell of her breasts bared by her gown. His rumbling voice as he had ordered her away from him, knowing that he did not mean it, that he wanted her just as she wanted him—

 

 

There is something he must remember, he thinks desperately, as lips kiss the nape of his neck, as a hand slides down his middle, nails catching on his skin, teeth grazing his earlobe, as the hand clutches hotly at his cock and positions it in the sodden furrows of Sansa's cunt, as she, as Sansa, moans, widening her hips, clutching at his shoulders to pull him into her.

There is something he must remember—

He thrusts into heat and silken tightness, and groans like he is dying. The scent of blood in the air; and wine, and herbs, and sweat, and musk, and sour breath. A whimper, a slim arm looped around his neck, a plea. _My king, please_ —

He thrusts again and grunts, hips smacking against hips, grinding, seating himself in her firmly, groaning as he presses his face into her neck and thrusts again, harder, in and in and in, as she writhes underneath him, insensible, fluttering around him, _clenching_ , pulling him _in_ —

 

 

He is hard in her, plundering her, his rhythm punishing, the pleasure so sweet it is almost painful, as he rubs against something deep inside of her, as he pounds and bullies a certain spot, and an inferno of sparks, a wave of flame, roars through her body, as she sobs and clings to him, ballast in the storm that rages inside of her, that roils around them as they rut, as they love one another on a bed made of fire.

He roars when he spills hot inside of her, holding her tightly as if she might wriggle from his grasp, locking her hips against his as he shudders and thrusts.

They are still for a moment, their heaving breaths the only sound, as she slides a hand down his back slick with sweat and he presses a soft, closed-mouth kiss to her jaw, and then he rolls his hips in a tight circle and she whimpers, head tipping back as he mouths at her neck and begins to thrust again and she is lost to the fires once more—

 

 

The priestess has her mouth between Sansa's legs, red hair tangled with red, small hands clutched to her head as he watches, gasping for air, as he pounds into her, into his priestess, hips smacking against her plush behind, bruised from his fingers, as he watches the vision before him, as Sansa moans and her eyes lift from Melisandre to himself and her wild, hot, gaze has him spilling with a groan, biting on his lips as he fucks his seed into her, the red priestess, as he pulls out and pushes her aside, fitting his mouth to Sansa's cunt, feeling Melisandre's mouth slide down his middle, attach itself to his cock like a lamprey, as they tangle up in a haze of limbs—

 

 

Soft lips on hers, soft cheeks against hers, a slim waist beneath her hands, as she kisses this priestess, lying underneath her on the bed that seems to roll like the ocean in a storm, making hungry noises as her tongue slides across the other woman's, as she opens her thighs for slim fingers to work their magic, to pluck and rub and tease.

A groan next to them on the bed as they turn as one to see the king, his chest red with exertion, his lips red with kisses, his chin wet with them both—

 _I shall die_ , he murmurs nonsensically, _I shall die_ , he repeats and bites at Melisandre's shoulders, pushing her onto her back so that he can gnaw at her breasts as Sansa strokes her hands across the priestess's wide hips and kisses her until she is breathless and then she is suddenly hoisted in the air and seated in his, her king's, lap, whimpering as he fits his cock to her cunt and pulls her down, so deep in her that her hips are juddering, that her pleasure is erupting anew as she looks down upon him, his brow creased in agony, two sets of hands now fitted tightly to her hips, two sets of arms guiding her rhythm as she rides him like he is some kind of beast while Melisandre kisses her neck and murmurs hot words in her ear, taunting the man who bucks his hips up into her, who groans like he is wounded and throws his head back, veins thick on his neck, teeth drawing blood from his own lips.

 _Witch_ , he says, _the both of you have bewitched me_ —

Sansa peaks with a sob, grinding her hips tightly into his as he lifts his head to suck at her nipples and she clutches him to her breast. _It is you, my king, you have bewitched me_ , she cries, _please, Stannis, please_ —

She is on her side, he is behind her, plunging his cock inside of her, smacking his firm thighs against her backside as she clings to the red priestess who lies in front of her, kissing her, groping at her hips, her thighs. Perhaps she shall die too, she thinks, moaning deep from her chest, writhing and bucking her hips, feeling so full of fire, and heat, and pleasure, an inferno roiling in her womb. _Please_ , she begs, and he turns her head, one large hand cupping her face and kisses her and his mouth is like water, the taste of him like a feast after moons of starvation, _please_ , she whimpers, _don't leave me_ —

 

 

 _Never_ , he swears, as he devours her pleas and moans, _I shall never leave you_ , and he wraps his arms around her, burying his face against the hard points of her spine as he spills into her, as she welcomes him inside of her—

 

 

"Why," he says the next morning, staring down at the girl in his bed, her pale limbs gleaming against the reds of his bedclothes - the ones Melisandre brought from wherever she spirits the red things that drape all of his rooms now - splotches and bruises from his mouth and fingers marring her skin, her face looking so damned _innocent_ in repose.

"Because you needed a son, a son of flesh and blood," his priestess says from the doorway, her words sure, triumphant.

"She is with child?" he says, loathing how young his voice sounds, how hopeful and tender.

"Yes, my king."

He closes his eyes, grits his teeth. "Shireen is my heir."

"A king should have many heirs, should he not, a man should have many children. And the lady Sansa is as fertile as her mother."

His hands itch to touch her, this lovely maiden he has ravished, to stroke a lock of her hair away from her flushed face, but it is not an impulse born of any magic, it is the same impulse that makes him hide his face in Melisandre's neck when he spills in her and smooth a lazy hand down her back, linger for one exquisite moment held inside her warmth before he parts from her and must become who he is again, a man of duty alone in the world.

"I must marry her now, of course, just as my bannermen wished," he bites out.

"Just so," Melisandre says and he turns his head to look at her, this witch who has cursed him, who has plagued his nights, his dreams, since she first appeared before him, devoted and righteous.

He should admonish her, he should punish her for what she did, for what she has wrought, but he knows just what she would say - _what is so terrible about pleasure, my king, did you not enjoy yourself, did she not enjoy herself also? Did you not find pleasure together, as the Lord of Light commanded? Do you not wish for a wife as lovely as her, and a son, an heir?_

Did he not, in truth, wish for just that, in those small lonely hours of the night before his red priestess first found him, before the maiden in his bed first washed ashore. He is a fool, like all men, but not so much a fool as to throw the gifts he has been given away.

 

 

She hears his heavy footsteps leave the room and lets out a drowsy sigh, stretching her limbs that ache so pleasurably, and flutters open her tired eyes to meet another pair watching her, pleased, from the doorway.

She flushes to meet her gaze, this priestess who had worked her magic last night, whose body is no longer a mystery to her, all her nooks and crannies mapped by her own eager hands in the debauchery of the night.

"Good morrow, my lady," Melisandre says, voice liquid and smile kind.

"Good morrow," she replies, her own voice utterly cracked and raw, embarrassed and yet not ashamed, not yet, lying there well-loved and sore in a bed that smells of embers and spice, of musk and sweat.

"I shall let you rest now," Melisandre says, turning to leave, hair swinging in a curtain of copper about her waist, "for I have a wedding to help arrange," she says, winking at Sansa who hides her hot face with her hands, smiling into her palms, ducking under the covers of the bed.

A wedding, a marriage, a _husband_ such as he.

She will allow herself one more hour to be silly, she tells herself, and then she must get dressed and pin her hair back and get to work, for he will brook no foolish girl for his queen. Her days will not be her own from now on, they will belong to her people and to the realm, and soon, godswilling, her children; and nor will her evenings, at the feasts she will encourage her husband to hold and in those hours spent in her solar answering letters, sitting with her ladies, mending her husband's tunics, and mothering her little darlings.

But the nights, she thinks, crossing her fingers like the young maiden she no longer is, may the nights be theirs alone - hers, her husband's, and, should she wish it, mayhaps their red priestess too - and may they find their pleasures there together, like fires blazing in the dark.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to hear what people think! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this fic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/174979603527/when-sansa-flees-from-kings-landing-her-boat-is)


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